


Doubt

by canterville



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Bees, Extremely Questionable Family Dynamics, Gen, Major Incestual Vibes, Seraphi is a terrible parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:05:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canterville/pseuds/canterville
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seraphi is planning for a second heir. Balem is anxious. Is he not enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> This fic basically operates around the notion that the Abrasax Primaries were basically manufactured from Seraphi's DNA. It's not the only headcanon I subscribe to, but it is a pretty wild mindfuck. I suppose I should also note that I prefer the reading that Balem is far and away older than the other two.

Seraphi was sitting with her back to the arching threshold that led off the balcony. The sunset was before her, and just for a moment, she looked like some celestial thing, as much a part of the sky as the sinking, aurous disc set in it. It almost stopped Balem from approaching. She didn’t turn at the sound of his footsteps, his presence insufficient to move her from her observation of the glory of this most exquisite of her holdings. There were many, and there would be many more, but for the time being, this was her favourite. Eris was known for its golden trees, and flowers, and for the sweet scent of the breeze. The ‘honey planet,’ it was called, and aptly so, since Seraphi had allowed bee splicers a lease on much of the planet’s surface. The air hummed with the sound of wandering swarms, like flakes of gold and obsidian, drifting on the fragrant air.  
  
“Don’t you think they’re beautiful?” He had been wondering when she would address him, sitting still as stone, swathed in a creamy silk stole. Eris was comfortably warm, always, and so there was little need for heavier fabrics. Here, Seraphi was a vision in silk, and chiffon, in taffeta, in gossamer. Breathtaking. “Balem?”  
  
“Beautiful,” he confirmed, though he did not look out at the shimmering swarms.  
  
“But you’ve barely looked at them.”  
  
“I’ve seen all I need to,” he replied. His love for his mother, his maker, swelled inside him, pressing hard against his heart. He had been crafted to love her, after all, but when he felt that ache, he feared he had been made to love her too much. His pulse quickened, but before he could speak again, Seraphi beckoned.  
  
“Come and sit by me,” she said, “it’s not often we get time to ourselves, is it?” Balem did not hesitate to obey, settling on the floor beside her chair. “Did you know, my love, that the species of bee found here is not the one that was here, first? The previous species was truly astounding; their wings did not buzz, like these, but seemed to sing.” Seraphi closed her eyes, as though she could almost hear them, still. “I don’t think there is anything quite like it. I was very fond of them, but they lacked a certain genetic adaptability that produced mediocre splices. When a new breed was developed, it became hostile to its progenitors. It became necessary to allow the old to die so that the new could thrive.” She smiled, and reached down to run her fingers through Balem’s hair. The compulsion to lean into that touch brought with it, for the first time, an uncomfortable knot in the pit of his stomach, to which he could not quite give voice. “Sometimes,” Seraphi began, “we must kill the beautiful, so that something useful can survive. Some lives will always matter more.”  
  
“And can cease to matter,” Balem observed, frowning. Then, suddenly, he continued. “If there is something that I lack, mother, if –”  
  
“Balem.” Seraphi said his name pointedly, with just a little too much emphasis on the terminal syllable. “Are you an insect?”  
  
“Of course not.” Balem’s expression hardened and he made to stand, halted only by the gentle weight of Seraphi’s hand on his shoulder. “But am I not what you intended? Is this not how you made me, mother?” He looked up, searching her face. She had been ancient, already, when he had been new, and even now, she was unfathomable to him. She cocked her head, and smiled.  
  
“This is about the new embryo, is it?” This time Balem did pull away, did stand. Of course it was. Of course, she knew.  
  
“It’s nothing.”  
  
“Balem.”  
  
“I have said that _it is_ _nothing!_ ” The roar that came out almost startled him, but Seraphi barely blinked. She knew his temper, too. She rose from her chair, at last, looking out, again, over the buzzing planet beyond the balcony. Her silence made his outburst seem ridiculous. Perhaps it was. Balem’s fingers coiled into a fist, which quaked with how tightly he held it. He turned on his heel, but was barely able to take a step before she stopped him.  
  
“You don’t get to walk away from me.” Cold command wound its way into her voice. “Not like this.” There was a rustling of fabric, behind him, but Balem did not turn. “Look at me.” At her command, he obeyed, and wondered if this, too, was what she had made him to do. His breath snagged on the inside of his throat at the sight. Seraphi had shrugged her stole, naked before him, and unabashed. Balem’s knees turned to water. She closed the space between them, the golden light of Eris dappling her skin. When she reached out, he could not recoil, and pulled her against him, instead, as if depending on her to stand.  
  
“Is this what you made me for?” he gasped. She wound her arms around his middle, standing on the tips of her toes so he could feel her words against his ear.  
  
“What does it matter, when you are so precious to me?”  
  
“Mother –” She took a step back, out of his embrace, and took his hands in hers, pressing them against her chest, just above her breasts.  
  
“Feel my heart. How it labours, how the blood circulates. That same blood flows in you. It makes us a part of one another. I cannot reject a part of myself. You cannot throw yourself away. I love you, Balem. I will always love you.” Before he could say he loved her, too, there was a warning chime. An incoming message. Seraphi let out a sigh, releasing his hands, and scooping up her stole from where it had fallen, an elaborate crumple of thin fabric. “There’s much to do,” she said, slipping into it. “Do not disappoint me.” Then, before anything more could be said, she brushed by, answering the call as though nothing had happened. Balem went to the balcony, instead, to gaze on the swirling masses of insects, and wonder. Was it possible to love too much?


End file.
